


Cake and Cognac

by LondonLioness



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Asperger's Sherlock Holmes, Childhood Memories, Gen, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Post S4 or AU your choice, Sad, i love mycroft, not entirely dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 09:38:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18775642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LondonLioness/pseuds/LondonLioness
Summary: Mycroft's death provokes revelations and realisations:"Why was it so important for me not to admit I loved him while he could still hear me? I owe him so much, John. He gave me my life.""You mean he saved your life, when the drugs...?""No. Well, that, too, but..." He picked up his now lukewarm tea and drained it in one long swallow. "I once said there are no heroes, but I think he may have been mine. He deserves to have the whole world know what he did for me, but I'm a coward. Please: this can't leave this room."





	Cake and Cognac

**Author's Note:**

> I adore the brother Holmes! All that delicious snarking. It's obvious they're much more alike than different, and they need to poke to avoid actually admitting real feelings. Why not? One of the mysteries of sibs. My poor mother was an only child, and she did not understand why my brothers and I squabbled relentlessly. I explained to her that how much you hate your brother has got nothing to do with how much you love him. Wish I had a photograph of the look she gave me.
> 
> Anyway, being the sick, twisted person I am, one way I show my love is by killing a sibling and wallowing in the fallout. Enjoy!

The detective and his blogger whirled into 221B, giggling like schoolboys. 

"That," John gasped, "is the most fun I've had in a month. I thought Lestrade was going to keel over when he saw the duct tape." 

"Well, I had to do _something_ ," Sherlock smirked. 

"Oh! Perfect title for the blog entry: 'Duct, Duct, Goose,'" John teased, deliberately spitting out the most ridiculous title he could think of to see Sherlock make a sour lemons expression. 

"If you use that title, I insist you change my name." 

John snorted. "Use your laptop to write up some notes? Mine's been glitching." Sherlock waved assent. "Password still MYOBMycroft?" 

"Yep. I'll put the kettle on." He strode toward the kitchen, but stopped short when his phone rang: a call, not a text. The eye roll when he saw the caller ID told John everything he needed to know. 

"Speak of the devil?" 

"Indirectly." He put the phone to his ear and said with an attitude of infinite long-suffering, "Yes, Anthea. What message from on high do you have for me that my dear brother can't be arsed to deliver himself?" The message was lengthy, because the silence on Sherlock's side was prolonged, then John heard him say, "I will. Goodbye." 

"So what's His Nibs want?" John asked, tapping at the keys. When there was no answer, he looked up to see his friend standing stock still, staring at the phone in his hand as if he had no idea what it was or how it had got there. "Sherlock?" He saw the other man's knees start to buckle and leapt to his side, supporting him for the few steps to his chair. "Sherlock. What is it?" 

Sherlock answered in a voice devoid of any emotion at all. "Mycroft had a heart attack. He's dead." The look he gave John was not so much sorrow as confusion. 

"Oh, God. I'm so sorry." Sherlock didn't respond to that. Instead, he leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands under his chin, and -- went away. John wasn't sure what would help, so he went into default mode; to wit, he made tea. He put Sherlock's cuppa within easy reach and retreated to his own chair, wanting to be present without crowding the man. 

After a moment, Sherlock noticed the tea and picked it up, cradling the old mug as if it were the most delicate bone china. He took a small, careful sip, waited a few seconds, took another. Sip. Sip. John recognised this from his own experience with raw grief, when it's so overwhelming all you can do is focus on the task at hand. The detective sipped his way through a little more than half the tea, then set the mug down; again, very delicately. He said in a remarkably normal voice, "You don't have to babysit me, John." His lips quirked in a half-smile. "That was Mycroft's job." 

"Babysitting?" John grinned as he imagined oh-so-precise Mycroft trying to tame the mischievous whirlwind his baby brother must have been. "Bet he loved that." 

"Actually, he was pretty good at it." A beat. "Of course, that was before he became a pompous git." He blinked and was gone again for a minute, watching whatever movie was playing inside his head. Then he said in a small, distant voice, "I didn't really hate him all that much, you know." 

"I know," John affirmed. "How much we hate our siblings had got nothing to do with how deeply we love them." 

"Exactly." He sighed ruefully. "I wonder why it was so important not to admit I loved him while he could hear me. I owe him so much, John. He gave me my life." 

"You mean he saved your life, when the drugs...?" 

"No. Well, that, too, but..." He picked up the now lukewarm tea and drained it in one long swallow. "I once said there are no heroes, John, but I think he might have been mine. He deserves to have the whole world know what he did for me, but I'm a coward. Please: this can't leave this room." 

"I promise." 

Sherlock nodded and sat back, settling himself for the narrative. He did not look at John; his gaze was focused on the events of more than three decades past. 

"I had just turned four," he began, "and one morning, Mycroft came and sat by me. He said, "Think of a house," and he started describing how ideas and facts and everything you want to remember can go in different places in the house. And it made so much sense. All at once, I had places to put my thoughts, so they wouldn't go tearing around my brain endlessly. I had a way to sort all the information that keeps pouring in through my eyes and ears. I even had a way to step back. Anytime I needed to, I could take a step back into that little house in my mind, and all that jangling stuff out there couldn't hurt me. I didn't need to scream to keep it out anymore." He smiled wistfully. "My God, it was beautiful. I practised with it all day, and that night, as Mummy was getting me ready for bed, I spoke for the first time." Now he did look at John, who was nodding, thoughtful but unsurprised. "I went from non-verbal to high functioning in less than a day, because my brother observed me, saw what I needed, and made it happen. And he kept on doing that, every day of my life, even when I hated him for it. Observing, and making sure I got what I needed. Because he. Um. He must have. Loved me." He swiped at his face and stared at his fingertips. "My eyes are leaking," he reported conversationally. 

"Perfectly appropriate," John assured him and retrieved some tissue from the loo. "So," he ventured, "high functioning autistic, not sociopath." Sherlock confirmed this with a nod. "So what's with the sociopath label you throw around?" 

The younger man shrugged. "When I say 'sociopath' everyone takes a step back, which is what I need them to do. If I say 'autistic,' people either pity me or expect me to count cards." He blinked and looked around suddenly. "My phone..." 

"Right, you dropped it." A short search turned it up under the table by Sherlock's chair. "Should I stay or give you some privacy?" 

"Stay." His finger hovered over the contact labeled "Mummy". In a whisper almost too soft to hear, he murmured, "God, how do I do this?" The look he gave John was utterly lost. "How do I do any of this now? He's always been there, and now he's not. That's unacceptable." John blinked at the choice of word, then realized it was completely apt. This was simply not something you could accept. This was the kind of loss that tore a hole in your personal universe. 

The doctor knelt by Sherlock's chair to be at eye level. "One foot in front of the other," he offered. "I wish there were a better answer, but for now, let's just deal with one step at a time." He laid a hand on his friend's forearm and gave an encouraging squeeze. "Call Mum." 

***************************************************************************************************************************************************** 

The funeral was rather better attended than Sherlock's had been; no doubt, Mycroft's "minions" served to swell the numbers. John was somehow unsurprised to see Anthea in widow's black, sporting an understated but exquisite diamond wedding ring. "Security," she murmured by way of explanation. "He feared I might become a target." She offered John a sad smile. "Dr. Watson, my name is Cerise." 

John clasped her hand and said sincerely, "My condolences, Mrs. Holmes." Her smile brightened a bit at the bittersweet joy of finally being able to claim the title, then she turned away as the service started. 

After the service was a catered affair featuring delectable food and a seemingly endless supply of very fine cognac. Sherlock choked back a half-laugh, half-sob at the sight of the dessert table, laden with as many types of cake as one could name. He swooped over and retrieved two slices of Black Forest Kirschetorte, handing one to John. "His favourite," he explained. "It wouldn't be right not to have a piece." 

"Cake and cognac, the quintessential Mycroft Holmes" mused John. 

"Cheers to that," Sherlock agreed, sketching a mock salute with his fork. 

***************************************************************************************************************************************************** 

Sherlock spent the next two weeks in a state of shocking normalcy, dismissing Lestrade's reluctance to call him on cases with, "Will my stopping my work make him any less dead?" Then it was time for the reading of the will -- or rather, viewing of the will: Mycroft had chosen to video record it. The affair was an eye-opener for John, who had had no idea how Old Money the Holmes family really was. Glittery mega-karat gems and luxury yachts are the toys of the nouveau riche; old money has no use for such pretensions. When you are old money, the money simply exists, as unremarkable as oxygen -- and Mycroft had had a _lot_ of oxygen. Even minor associates were receiving bequests of five figures, and there were whole estates to dispose of. Sherlock looked well pleased to receive a cottage in Sussex -- although John suspected any house a Holmes called a cottage an ordinary person would call a mansion. 

Finishing with Sherlock, Mycroft shifted his gaze fractionally so that he seemed to look John straight in the eye as he drawled, "Dr. Watson." And how the _hell_ did he do that? (Later, Sherlock would remind him that since John was left-handed and Sherlock right, Sherlock habitually sat on his right so they wouldn't bump elbows. Of course, Mycroft would have observed that. But it was still eerie as hell.) "John. I leave you -- my brother." This was said lightly, Mycroft smiling as if at a droll joke, but John knew better. _"Look after him. Please."_ The video continued, "Sorry, Sherlock, couldn't resist one last dig. On a more serious note, John: the portfolio my solicitor is about to hand you had, at the time of this recording, a value of 1.2 million pounds. I am also leaving you a set of Waterford crystal. The set includes an exquisite candy dish which can double as an ash tray should the need arise." John bit down on the inside of his cheek to stave off a fit of giggles. Beside him, Sherlock was making small strangled sounds. They were able -- barely -- to keep themselves in check as Mycroft made his final comments. 

"Well, that's it. I depart this Earth leaving behind a frankly ridiculous amount of worldly goods, a few dearly cherished people, and the satisfaction of knowing I have served my family and my Queen to the best of my ability. If one subscribes to the trite notion of life as a game, I do believe I won." He smiled softly for a moment, then added, "Do take care of yourselves." The video faded to black. 

In the cab on the way home, Sherlock finally huffed out a laugh. "Ash tray," he chuckled. 

"Yeah," John agreed. The memory of Sherlock clad in a sheet in Buckingham Palace flooded him and he gave in to a fit of giggling. "You in that sheet," he gasped. 

"We did get to see the queen," Sherlock rejoined, eyes dancing with mirth, and they descended into laughter again. 

Suddenly, Sherlock's breath hitched with a type of hiccup, and instead of laughing, he was crying. Not the almost involuntary flow of tears that had accompanied his learning the news, but the deep sobs that signify a truly healing cry. John drew him in, letting his friend rest his head on his shoulder as his grief spilled out. 

Realisation hit suddenly. _"He knew,"_ John thought. _"Mycroft knew that making Sherlock laugh would help him release his sorrow. From beyond the grave, he gave his little brother what he needed. One last time."_ John decided to keep this insight to himself as Sherlock gave a last, long, shuddering breath and relaxed, having practically cried himself to sleep. 

The cab pulled up and Sherlock disentangled himself, dashing his sleeve across his face in an endearingly childlike gesture. "Oh," he murmured. "Oh, I..." 

"Stop," John said, softly but firmly. "Don't you dare apologise." He followed Sherlock out of the cab and took a deep breath as they mounted the stairs. "I think we need tea." 

"Oceans of tea," the taller man agreed, and John grinned. 

The baton had been well and truly passed. 

\- Fin -

**Author's Note:**

> It's a head canon of mine that Mycroft taught Sherlock the mind palace to allow his neurodiverse sibling to impose enough order on the chaos that he could interact with the outside world. Not at all suggesting that this would work as a "cure" for autism (being aspie myself, I know better), simply that with Sherlock's unique constellation of strengths and deficiencies, it worked for him.
> 
> One may wonder where Rosie is...well, I wrote this before S4, so I didn't know how Mary's pregnancy would turn out. If you want to believe she's with sitters while John and Sherlock do grownup things like funerals, etc., that's certainly not too much of a stretch. Or maybe this is an AU with no Rosie. Whichever.
> 
> Kudos and comments make my world go round!


End file.
